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She was seventeen going on fifty |
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I'm not quite sure exactly what that means |
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But her speakers screamed Sinatra and the Zombies |
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Her hair hung red around her ripped blue jeans |
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She said she was Jim Morrison incarnate |
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A psychic on La Brea told her so |
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She asked me if I ever read Lolita |
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She took my hand and lead me to her door |
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And she said.... |
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Let's go to my room |
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I'll show you my posters |
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Let's go to my room |
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I'll show you I'm al lover |
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She locked the door behind me she lit a candle |
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Then blew it out said the moon would do just fine |
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The lizard king and T. Rex for wall paper |
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Above her bed hung a No-Parking sign |
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She asked me if I liked her decorator |
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As she stripped behind a wall of raining beads |
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I woke up with her pillow and her diary |
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She took her bath as I began to read |
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And she said... |
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Let's go to my room |
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I'll show you my posters |
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Let's go to my room |
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I'll show you I'm a lover |
